


Substitute

by illogicallyplaced



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: But will probably go up later on, I haven't decided yet, M/M, Teen for the moment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:36:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illogicallyplaced/pseuds/illogicallyplaced
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Grantaire is a substitute art lecturer and Enjolras needs some help getting his grades up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Very Bad Idea

** Chapter One **

Grantaire can feel his limbs trembling almost imperceptibly as he faces the class of fresh-faced art majors. Fuck, he needs a drink.

“Okay, so Professor Aguillard is going to be off for a few days, so it looks like I’m going to be taking you poor sods while he’s away.” He gets a few snickers at that. “I’m R. None of that ‘professor’ bullshit.” More snickers, mostly from the girls. “The Prof left um… _obsessively_ detailed instructions for these lessons, but they sound kind of dull to me, so we’re not going to listen to those. First off, I want to see what sort of art you like, how you define yourselves, so I want you all to draw whatever you think shows me who you are. Alright. Go.” Grantaire slumps down at his desk and closes his eyes against the headache hammering away at the insides of his skull. He can hear the students getting out pencils, paints and the like, the odd snippet of whispered conversation filtering through the lovely daydream about the bottle of absinthe he would just _love_ to be pouring down his throat right now.

_“Quite nice, isn’t he?”_

_“Look at his hair.”_

_“Look at his_ eyes _!”_

Grantaire is permanently baffled by these comments. He doesn’t consider himself to be unattractive, but likewise he doesn’t see anything special in his features, and cannot see what these girls find so appealing about his face, clearly unwashed and sporting three days of stubble. Brushing off the voices, he tries to return to his intoxicating reverie, but it is not long before it is destroyed by the smash of glass. Hefting himself to his feet and opening his eyes _(since when was the sun so bright, anyway?)_ ,he surveys the class before him. Most of the students are still working away diligently with charcoal pencil, oil pastel or watercolour, but a blonde girl is on her feet, staring dumbly at the dirty water pooled on the floor, and the remnants of the jar that once contained it. She looks like she’s going to cry.

“It’s fine. Just, go and get a broom from the store cupboard, and some towels to clear this up.” The girl scampers off to collect the requisite items, and Grantaire sighs. Now he’s up, he might as well have a look at what his new charges are doing. Weaving in between the budding young artists, he spares only the most cursory of glances for most of the pieces. Self-portraits and angsty daubings he really doesn’t have time for now. He’ll save _that_ chore for later _(oh, the joy. Why did he sign up for this, again?)_. Only a very few of the pictures showed any real talent. He has to stop for a moment by one canvas to admire the work. It’s _yet another_ self-portrait, but this one is done with flair, subtle motifs and images wending their way through the colours.

“This is really something, you know,” he says, watching the boy add another rose to his artwork with a flourish. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, it’s Jehan. And do you really think it’s that good?” The boy- Jehan- turns his face up to Grantaire’s _(Christ, this kid looks like he’s just stepped out of the eighties. New Romantic or something,)_ eyes shining with pleasure. There’s a rose tucked behind his ear just like the one on his easel. Good Lord.

“I’d hardly say it if I didn’t think so. But you might want to consider putting some gouache in there for highlights, or maybe some ink around the edges. Don’t limit yourself too much to one medium.” With this advice, Grantaire moves to the next student, his boredom returning along with the mediocre offerings. He passes through two more rows of uninspiring pieces, occasionally murmuring an affirmation or suggesting a different line just there, but generally not paying too much attention to his work. At the last workstation, however, he stops again. Instead of some self-engrossed, GCSE-level piece, Grantaire is staring at what appears to be a battle scene: dark browns and greys swirled together, the flag of France draped behind it. He can see no trace of the _(extremely attractive- no. Not appropriate. Shut up, brain)_ person laying oils to canvas, unlike every single one of his classmates’ pieces, which positively scream ego. The drawing itself is not of the highest degree, but that, Grantaire has found, is only of slight consequence in art, and techniques can be learned. What this picture has is something innate. It shows passion. It conveys the artist’s feelings in every brush stroke.

The boy glances at Grantaire expectantly, and he is sure his heart does a little jig in his chest. He needs a drink, that’s all. His blood alcohol levels are running dangerously low.

“You, ugh, you should think more about your composition, maybe. The flag looks a bit incongruous there.” _(Incongruous? Who the Hell says incongruous?)_ Grantaire wheels away quickly, huffing back down at his desk and pulling out some Art History papers to mark. They all get Bs, his attentions meandering elsewhere. That boy is a student _(albeit a very good-looking one)_ and he has to maintain a professional exterior _(because he’s been doing such an excellent job of that so far- giving vague instructions, trying to get out of doing any actual work.)_ Hey, at least he’s not half-cut _(well bravo, for managing something most people do every day of their working lives.)_ Anyway, it doesn’t matter how he feels about any of his students. They’re not really _his_ after all, he’s just filling in until their proper teacher gets back. Which should be relatively soon. Hopefully.

Grantaire glances up at the antique clock on the wall, which reads half-past six. Bloody old buildings, nothing ever works. And he forgot his watch this morning, leaving it laying on the side of his bath. Pulling out his mobile, Grantaire checks the time, and sees he has a missed call from Combeferre, his flatmate. Class is due to end in five minutes. He might as well wrap things up early and see what Combeferre wants.

“Alright, everyone. If you could just leave your work where it is, I’ll have a look at them once they’ve had time to dry and get back to you for next lesson, okay?” His announcement is greeted by more uproarious nattering _(his head really does hurt)_ as students jam their supplies in their bags or back on shelves and make their way through the door. Grantaire doesn’t watch them go: he’s too engrossed in sending a text, which is why he doesn’t notice that a certain student remains in the classroom.

“R?” _(Fuck.)_

“Ah, you’re the flag-boy, right?” Grantaire’s voice sounds strangely falsetto, but ‘flag-boy’ doesn’t notice- or at least chooses not to comment.

“Enjolras,” says the boy, dipping his head in a show of courtesy which Grantaire supposes would seem ludicrous from anyone else _(you’re acting like a love-struck teenager. Stop this.)_ “I was wondering if you maybe have any free time to help me prepare my final piece. I really want to get a good mark, but I just don’t have the skill.” Enjolras smiles ruefully, hopefully, and Grantaire readies himself to refuse.

“I’m sure I can find the time,” he hears himself say _(wait, what?)_ “You should be aware that teachers aren’t actually allowed to coach their pupils _(good. Blame it on the system. Smooth.)_ But I’m not technically your teacher, am I? So it should be fine _(no. Shit.)_ ” Enjolras doesn’t smile, but his Apollonian features brighten in gratitude _(stop_ mooning _, R)_ as Grantaire reaches down to scribble his e-mail address on one of the multitudinous scraps of paper littering the desk _(this is almost as bad as giving him your number)_ and hands it to Enjolras, who slips it straight into his back pocket.

“Shall I send you a copy of my timetable, then? So you can see when we’re both available”

“That sounds like a good idea.” Enjolras nods his head once more, before turning to stride out of the doors and into the corridor, blond curls bouncing around his head like a halo _(stop it.)_

This is a bad idea. A very bad idea indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I just wanted to thank everyone who commented, followed or left kudos on this, it's really unexpected! And also to inform you all that this story doesn't really have any long-term plan, it's just my headcanon written down, so be warned...

** Chapter Two **

Grantaire’s not even drained his third bottle of beer by the time Combeferre returns from teaching his second-year biochem students. His sketchbook rests on his lap, displaying high foreheads and strong jawlines that Grantaire can barely remember drawing. He flips the cover swiftly when Combeferre plonks himself down next to him.

“So, how does it feel having a real job for once?”

“I would hardly call art sub a _job_ , Combeferre. It literally involves no effort other than saying ‘draw me a thing’ then going round telling them all that they’re doing great _(well, nothing more the way_ he _teaches it, at least.)_ It has to be the easiest thing ever.”

Combeferre wrinkles his nose in amusement at this. “Yeah, well, just wait until you have to start fending off complaints from students saying you’re not being fair, you’re not helping them at all.”

He bristles slightly at this _(why? It’s a perfectly sensible statement.)_ “Excuse you, but I have already agreed to take on a student for private tutoring. Not helping them at all, indeed. It would hardly do for me to let them all fail, would it?” _(Because that’s the only reason he’s giving up his time. No ulterior motives at all. Nope. None.)_ Grantaire takes a long swig of beer. “How was your day?”

Combeferre here launches into a complete description of every single class he had taught and all the petty dramas he had encountered, while Grantaire sinks back into the cushions and closes his eyes. He can still feel that headache from earlier playing around his periphery _(not nearly drunk enough)_ but he doesn’t think there was any more alcohol in the house- he strongly suspects Combeferre has taken to pouring his stash down the sink whenever he’s out of the house. He doesn’t move from his position until his friend inevitably tails off, announcing his need to finish marking some essay or other, whereupon he decides to stretch his legs _(about as far as the nearest pub, to be precise.)_ He grabs his coat, hat, keys and wallet from where they are strewn on the floor and slips out.

The late afternoon is a bit nippy, and he pulls his hat down over his ears, hands buried in his pockets as he makes his way towards his favourite pub _(and by favourite, he means he gets half-price drinks because he’s mates with the owners’ daughter)_. It’s in a less than salubrious area of Paris, and Grantaire is inclined to keep his head down and walk quickly past the prostitutes and gangs that litter the street corners before he reaches the door. Pushing inside, he is greeted by a comforting warmth and the sour tang of spilt beer and something else he probably doesn’t want to dwell on. His feet stick to the ancient carpet, just as his pint glass sticks to the corner table at which he ensconces himself to watch the varied and various drunkards come and go. Some of the regulars recognise him, either turning their faces away or coming over to slap a friendly hand on his back and look at what he’s doodling on beermats and serviettes. He wishes he’d had the forethought to bring his sketchbook so he didn’t have to contend with rips down his drawings _(no. That would only encourage him to draw Enjolras all the more. At least the shitty paper distorts his lines so he can plausibly deny any inspiration for them. And he’d only leave it on the table, anyway.)_ After a time, youngsters start coming over to him with requests _(they should definitely be at home,)_ and he passes the time sketching princesses, dragons, and one Edward Scissorhands for a particularly shy girl. By the time all the children have been taken home, and Grantaire’s run out of things to draw on, it’s reached that time when the city’s twenty-somethings start to filter into the pub in preparation for a night out.

The door to the bar bangs open and a group of students bustle in. Grantaire watches idly as they make their way to the bar- there are five of them, and he recognises most of them from around the university, he even thinks that blonde girl might have been in his class earlier _(oh. She’s the soppy-looking one who knocked over her water pot. And is that the guy with the flower in his hair? Jehan?)_ He sinks back into his seat as the group go to sit down, cap pulled down ridiculously low _(why do people think this will conceal them? Nobody identifies others by their foreheads. If anything, it makes him more conspicuous: it’s hard not to stare at that weirdo wearing his hat as an eyebrow-warmer,)_ but continues to watch _(pervert.)_ After about two minutes, one of the group looks up at the door, face lighting as he hails two men over. The dippy blonde leaps to her feet to embrace the shorter of the two, and the other turns away. As he does so, the dim bar light catches on his face and _(oh fuck. Abort. Abort,)_ Grantaire recognises the blond mop of hair above delicate features hardened by austerity. He can’t escape, and he does not want to be recognised by any of his students _(especially not_ that _student)_ while he’s this inebriated. When the newcomers are purchasing their drinks, Jehan gets up and _(oh for the love of fuck, he doesn’t believe in God, but he could swear Loki’s toying with him now)_ comes over to his table.

“Pardon me, m’sieur, but would it be possible to take these two chairs?” Grantaire almost thinks he hasn’t been recognised, but then “R?” _(Bollocks.)_

A quick weigh-up of the situation tells Grantaire that, however tempting the idea may be, there really is no point trying to deny anything. “Jehan, right? Fancy running into you here.” _(Yep, he’s slurring.)_ The younger man doesn’t appear to notice.

“Why don’t you come over and join us?”

“I was just about to leave, as it happens. My flatmate will be starting to worry about me.” _(Like fuck, he will. Probably went to bed at eight, like a good boy.)_ Without waiting for a response, Grantaire hauls himself up and tries to exit the pub. To his credit, not many men, when under the influence of at least three pints, half a bottle of absinthe and the beers he drank before heading out, could accomplish the six feet Grantaire manages before he faceplants. When he comes round, he’s lying on one of the poorly upholstered benches, breathing in the smell of stale fags.

_“Someone should call him a taxi.”_

_“Well someone’ll have to go with him. We can’t leave him in this state.”_

_“Look, I’ll ride back with him, then carry on home.”_ Grantaire _really_ hopes he doesn’t recognise that voice.

_“Enjolras, you only just got here!” (Bugger.)_

_“And I’m only here in the first place because you made me come. I have work to do.”_

_“You’re always working, Enj. The world will continue turning if you take a step back for one evening, you know. The debased can stand to wait another day for salvation.”_

Grantaire tunes out here _(too much effort to follow the conversation.)_. He’s not really _quite_ as drunk as they think he is, but he hit his head pretty hard on the way down, and now everything’s swimming. Before long, he’s being shaken by the arm.

“R, there’s a taxi waiting outside. Do you think you can stand?” Groggily, he nods in the affirmative and makes to get up. He’s barely made it two steps before he falls sidelong into the wall and feels Enjolras grip his waist, hoisting the drunkard’s arm over his shoulders to drag him out into the soberingly cold night air.

“What’s your address?”

“434, Rue Denfert-Rochereau, 14th Arrondissement.” Enjolras relays this information to the cabbie, and Grantaire can feel the student’s muscles flex as he keeps his teacher vertical, before he manoeuvres the two of them into the back seat.

“’M sorry. Not a great way to spend an evening, taking care of your tutor, eh?” Grantaire has always been proud of his ability to maintain eloquence when drunk. Enjolras doesn’t answer. The rest of the journey to Grantaire’s flat passes somewhat awkwardly, and Grantaire is _very_ glad when they pull up outside his building. Less glad when he sees Combeferre waiting for him on the steps.

“I got his number off your phone when you were passed out,” Enjolras informs him. He sounds pissed off _(well, who wouldn’t in this situation?)_ but there’s another element hidden behind the severity. Not quite sheepishness, but there’s definitely _(maybe)_ something timid about it. Grantaire doesn’t have time to dwell on it before the door is pulled open and he’s being hauled out unceremoniously by his sleep-deprived flatmate and into his bed. Not bothering to change, Grantaire rolls himself up into the duvet and tries to get to sleep. He’s almost managed it when,

_Ding_

He gets his mobile out of his back pocket _(that must have taken some getting to when he was out of it)_ and sees that he has one text.

_you didnt pay for the taxi. dont forget to bring money to class tomorrow. enjolras_

Sneaky little shit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not all that hapy with this chapter; I feel like it's rather unfinished, but it's getting very long, it's 3:15AM and I want to get it up.  
> Also, I've changed one slight detail. Cookies for anyone who spots it!

** Chapter 3 **

Sure enough, the next day, Grantaire remembers _(barely)_ to stop off at the cashpoint on his cycle to work and withdraws €20. He knows perfectly well that it wouldn’t have cost Enjolras that much _(Hell, he knows the exact taxi fares between his flat and every bar in the city past a certain time)_ but something tells him it would be a little rude to hand over a crumpled note and thirteen centimes when he caused Enjolras and his friends that much bother. _(Why? It’s not like he’s ever cared about being a burden before. No, that’s not true. He’s just never cared_ enough _before.)_

He arrives early on purpose, so he can have the chance to look over the work from yesterday that is still set up. Grantaire _knows_ art, and he can pick out the inspirations behind each little stylistic quirk of each of the students in a heartbeat. He notes a lot of Rousseau and Monet, but he can tell that, to date, there has been one fatal flaw in the way these youngsters _(they’re only five or six years younger than him)_ have been taught.Thank God for the interactive whiteboards that has replaced the old-fashioned blackboard wall in the classroom; it allows Grantaire to spend ten minutes bringing up a few internet files and throwing together a hasty PowerPoint presentation before his students start to trickle in. Jehan and the blonde enter together. They stop once they spot their teacher, Jehan offering a tight, concerned smile and blondie dropping her head as they each scurry to their respective workstations. Grantaire makes a mental note to avoid them for the next couple of lessons _(is that childish?)_ About sixty percent of the class has arrived before Grantaire notices the blond curls and high brow of Enjolras _(not that he was_ looking _for him. Don’t be ridiculous,)_ who doesn’t even catch his eye as he strides over to his desk _(mixed messages?)._ In fact, Enjolras so studiously ignores his gaze that Grantaire wonders if he misinterpreted the subtext behind the previous night’s message. Shrugging it off, he closes the door behind the final few entrants and places himself before the class to begin.

“Quick question. Was Professor Aguillard a bit of a fan of French painters?” There is a low murmur of assent, accompanied by a couple of derisive snorts. “It’s obvious. You’re good students, and the work you left me shows that you have really taken on board the techniques you’ve learned about. But there wasn’t one _single_ piece which evidenced the sort of knowledge of foreign painters you need to come out of this with a good degree.” A few of the students look surprised by this, while others look as though they agree. “But the blame can’t be laid entirely on the professor. You are at university, for Christ’s sake, take some bloody initiative. Your teacher can only _ever_ show you a very narrow selection of what fine art encompasses. It’s up to you to fill in the gaps. _(Hypocrite.)_ Which is why this lesson is not going to be very long. I’ve got a presentation to show you, just to give you an idea of what there is out there, and then you are going to go off, and you’re going to research foreign artists. Then, you’re going to create four pieces of artwork, each one representing the style of one artist from one country and one decade. I don’t care what it is, but each one has to be as unlike the others as you can make it. I’m going to trust you enough to have my phone number, and if you want help, you text me, and I will be here. Aside from that, this is the last lesson I’m giving until you’ve all shown me that you can learn independently.” Nobody says anything, so Grantaire hits the board to wake it up, and spends the next ten minutes flicking through slides, each one with a brief description of one style or artist, from Millais and the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood to Picasso, vorticism and pointillism, touching on some of the more obscure painters that had inspired Grantaire as a younger _(and much less disingenuous)_ man: Kotarbiński, Carus and Levêque.

At the end, Grantaire writes out his mobile number on the scratchpad.

“Okay, jot that down, then you can go.” Fifteen shell-shocked individuals scrabble for paper and pens, before grabbing their bags and scurrying out the door in silence, heads bent, leaving Grantaire alone to save his presentation onto a USB _(might be able to use that again)_ and swing his tattered backpack over his shoulder. He’s just about to leave the room when his phone pings. _(Did he not clarify the meaning of_ independence _enough in that lesson?)_

<Enjolras> you still owe me money

Grantaire’s fingers trip over themselves as he sends his reply.

<Me> not my fault u lft in such a hury. mony is in my wlet

<Enjolras> well have to meet up then, wont we

<Enjolras> im guessing youre free in 10

 _(Hold on a second, is he being_ flirted with _?)_

<Enjolras> or are you too hungover

Actually, Grantaire doesn’t think he can remember his head feeling this clear _(and it’s definitely to do with all the water he’s drunk, not the adrenaline coursing through him.)_

<Me> u no chez prune on rue baurepaire _(They do an excellent line in lunchtime tipples.)_

<Enjolras> not that poncy bobo hangout. ill see you in cafe musain on place edmond rostand

Grantaire is almost tempted not to go after his beloved boozer has been so rudely spurned, but that would mean giving up the chance to find out more about the confusing Enjolras, so _(despite it being a Very Bad Idea)_ Grantaire shoves his phone it his jacket pocket, untangles his bike from the mass in the shed, and sets off down the busy rue Soufflot. Luckily, it’s not far, and it takes him less than five minutes to find the place in question. Locking his bike to the pavement railings, he pushes inside to find Enjolras already in possession of a table, two steaming cups of black coffee in front of him.

“R,” Enjolras inclines his head _(why does he do that? It’s so damn ero- nope. Stop that thought right there.)_

“Enjolras.” Grantaire slips into the seat opposite him, simultaneously sliding the €20 note across the table. Wordlessly, Enjolras gets out his wallet and starts rifling through looking for change.

“No, no, no. Think of the extra as payment for my ruining your night. Besides, you bought me coffee.” The wallet goes away again, and the two sit in silence for a time, sipping on their coffee. It’s actually really good, and Grantaire doesn’t find himself itching to sneak a dram of whisky in there.

“May I ask you something?” It’s Enjolras who fors broaches conversation. Grantaire waves his hand for him to continue. “What’s your real name? I mean, it can’t just be R.”

“Grantaire.”

“Clever. Big R.” _(Trust_ this one _to be the only person Grantaire thinks he’s not had to explain that moniker to since his friend made it up when they were fifteen.)_ “You really did do me a favour, last night. I had a mountain of work to get through. Essays to write, and then I had to plan the next Amis meeting.”

Grantaire groans. He knows all about ‘les Amis de l’ABC’, as they call themselves. One of the university’s more… _active_ societies, les Amis are notorious amongst the fac for organising disruptive rallies and protests whenever they perceive persecution. And there is _always_ persecution to be found, it they look hard enough. Grantaire may have only been teaching for a few days, but he’s heard more than enough stories from Combeferre of classes emptied and riots only barely averted on the say-so of this band of wannabe socialists.

“You’re not one of them, are you?” Enjolras’s face doesn’t change, but his eyes take on a steely glint.

“I am one of the founding members, thank you very much. Is there a problem with that?”

“I just don’t see the _point_. Whatever anyone does, it won’t be enough. The house always wins.”

“Well, what would you have us do, then? I will not stand by and watch the poor suffer at the hands of some outdated bourgeoisie, who cannot even _begin_ to imagine what it’s like to live life on the breadline. They say they bring in all these reforms to even out the class gap, but they are carefully tailored to keep the average citizen down-at-heel, playing on the fact that most people don’t know enough about politics and budgeting to understand how cleverly these bills have been tailored to benefit those at the top. It’s like throwing the working class a bone, a smokescreen so they don’t see how badly they’re being treated. You don’t think we do anything? At least we tell people what’s being done to them, so they can rise up against it.”

Grantaire can see how les Amis de l’ABC have managed to gain such an influence over the young and credulent Parisiens, if this is the sort of verbatim rhetoric they can offer. _(Besides, their mouthpiece has an extremely sexy voice when he gets het-up. And that is pure, dispassionate fact, that.)_

“I hate to break it to you, but the people are never going to ‘rise up’. You are never going to start this rebellion you so crave. People _like_ being downtrodden. Or at least, they like what they’re used to. They might be living in abject poverty, but at least they’re secure with their position in society; how do they know the world will be a better place once the wheel has turned around?” Enjolras looks flabbergasted.

“They _like_ it? Are you suggesting the people enjoy having to work ten-hour days or more just to scrape together enough money to feed their families?”

“No, that isn’t what I said at all. Look at what’s happened before now. 1789, the French Revolution started, and two years later, a set of terms were agreed on to make France a better place. The next year, the people revolted because it wasn’t working, and essentially reverted back to the old system, with a few slight alterations. In the English Civil War, Charles I was decapitated, they brought in Cromwell, who was essentially a dictator, then after his death, they brought back the monarchy with Charles II, who was even more louche than his father. People like what they know, and they know absolute rule. It’s safe. Whenever people rise up, they find they don’t know what to do with it and go back to how it was as soon as they can. No, they don’t enjoy ten-hour shifts, but it’s better than the alternative.”

Enjolras doesn’t say anything for a long while, he just stares at Grantaire with a thunderous expression on his face. Eventually, Grantaire sighs, his cup drained.

“Look, I’m sorry if I’ve insulted you. Your passion is admirable, it really is, and I wish you every success.” Without another word, he stands up and leaves the café, not glancing back to see if Enjolras has reacted, to see how much he’s fucked that situation up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya! Sorry it took so long to update this, but I have exams coming up, and seeing as I failed my first modules, I'm kind of busy studying. With that in mind, new chapters are probably going to be few and far between until the summer, but I will try to upload as often as possible.
> 
> Not so much e/R in this chapter, but I hope it fills in some gaps in the story. Enjoy!

** Chapter 4 **

He deliberately takes the long way back from the Café Musain, stopping off to purchase some new charcoal pencils _(the best medium)_ from his favourite art supplies store on the boulevard des Filles de Calvaire, so it’s well into the evening by the time Grantaire returns to the flat, and he’s sure Combeferre will have beaten him to it. Sure enough, as he puts his key in the lock, he can hear voices wafting out, accompanied by the smell of cooking. _(Éponine’s over, then.)_ Éponine Thénardier _(or Jondrette when she doesn’t want the police to find her)_ is one of his oldest and closest friends, ever since she rescued him from a particularly nasty gang of muggers trying to take advantage of his inebriated state. True, the ringleader of this group had been her father, but Grantaire didn’t hold that against her for too long. She’s nineteen years old, but doesn’t have a university education _(Hell, she doesn’t even have her baccalauréat)_ because she has spent most of her life looking after herself and her two closest siblings. She only comes over to his and Combeferre’s when she really needs a rest, or when she has important news _(well, it sounds so much more mature than ‘juicy gossip,’ doesn’t it?)_ Whenever she wants the former, she brings chocolate. Whenever the latter, she cooks stew, because she says it’s ‘good warming food, perfect for a natter.’

Indeed, when he pushes open the front door, he’s practically dragged by a petite brunette to the dining table, where his flatmate is heartily scoffing food from the large pan in the centre.

“Where have you been, eh?” No ‘good afternoon, old friend. Would you like to try some of my delicious cooking?’ “I’ve been waiting for you for _hours_. I have big news for you.”

“Oh, yeah? And what would that be?” Grantaire asks mildly, whilst filling a bowl with stew. Éponine flops down on one of the mismatched chairs and sighs _(in a suspiciously dreamy fashion, he might add)._

“I’m in love,” she croons, gazing at nothing in particular in the very picture of a Disney damsel. “His name’s Marius Pontmercy, and he’s perfect. Like, he’s got this little way of raising one eyebrow when he laughs, and his eyes are so green, but they’ve got these flecks of brown, and his freckles. He’s got freckles _on his lips_ Grantaire.”

“You’re in love, eh? And how long have you and this M. Pontmercy been acquainted?” He’s sure he’s not heard anything about this man before, and Éponine usually tells him everything.

“Well, he’s been coming and getting coffee from the Musain for a few weeks now. But I only got to talk to him today. He’s a law student at Sorbonne.” _(That explains why she’s not mentioned him before.)_

“So, basically, you don’t know him at all,” he replies from around a mouthful of vegetables. Éponine looks scandalised.

“I told you, I got to talking with him today. He was in when I had my break, so I asked if I could sit with him.”

“You did not!” Combeferre’s head rises from behind his bowl, incredulity plastered over his features.

“Of course I did!” Éponine snaps. “It was a perfect opportunity, I was hardly going to pass it up!”

“And I assume you’ve set a date to meet up, then?” Éponine isn’t one to waste time on _courting_ or anything so twee. To Grantaire’s surprise, Éponine’s face clouds over at the mention.

“Well, no. Marius has a girlfriend. My ex-foster sister.”

“Your ex-what?” This is not something Grantaire’s ever heard Éponine talk about. “How in God´s name did your parents ever get approved as foster carers?”

“Come off it, Grantaire. You’ve seen what excellent bullshitters my parents are, and we had a bit of money back then, so the place looked less… seedy. They got Montparnasse and Babet to act as character witnesses _(those two have possibly the worst characters of all Thénardier’s lackeys, but he supposes they’re both good enough actors to have played along)_ and the ASE fell for it, hook, line and sinker. I was only a toddler at the time.”

“And why precisely did your parents _want_ to foster a child? I can hardly imagine them wanting to share their abundant love with a poor, defenceless babe.”

“No, but I should say the extra 8000₣ per month bought their affections. Besides, whenever the social weren’t around, they treated Euphrasie like a slave. Course, they were very careful to make sure she didn’t say anything to anyone, so nobody found out until she started to get too expensive and my parents got rid of her.” Silence follows. Nobody is really shocked at Éponine’s words: they’ve all had run-ins with the Thénardiers enough to know that there is nothing the pair wouldn’t do for money.

“Anyway,” Éponine continues, “it’s not like they’re going to last. I’ve seen Euphrasie a couple of times since she got adopted by that old mayor bloke, and she is an utter wet blanket. Her new father’s spoiled her rotten, and she’s turned into one of those simpering little women, always hanging off Marius’s arm. She’s calling herself Cosette, too. How can anyone want to go out with someone who likes to be called Little Thing?”

“Some men like simpering little women, É,” supplies Combeferre. _(Shut up, mate, if you don’t want to end up in a headlock.)_ Éponine glowers at him, but refrains from commenting. She merely stands up and starts to clear the bowls away, despite there still being half a pan full of stew remaining. Grantaire gets up and moves into the living room, while Combeferre _(who a least has a strong sense of when his presence is not required)_ excuses himself, citing a pile of mock papers he’s been neglecting. Neither of them offer to help Éponine clear up, because they both know she doesn’t want them to see her pouring the leftovers into a Tupperware container to take home to her family. She’ll leave them the washing up, anyway.

When she joins Grantaire in the living room, she curls up into the fœtal position on the sofa, her arms wrapped around a threadbare cushion _(presumably imagining it is her desirable M. Pontmercy)_ and her eyes resuming their far-off stare.

“So, tell me about Marius, then. Aside from his eyes and his speckly lips, what has he done to capture your heart?” Grantaire has never been accused of being over-caring, but he does _try_ to make an effort.

“He’s just such a good person, you know, R? His grandfather’s really rich, but he refuses to take any money he hasn’t earned himself. And he’s a part of this university society that challenges political hypocrisy.” _(Now that sounds suspiciously familiar.)_

“You wouldn’t happen to know the name of this society, would you?”

“Well, of course I do. They’ve pretty much monopolised the back room at the Musain. _(Okay,_ please _don’t let it be-)_ Les Amis de l’ABC. _(Fuck’s sake.)_ Pretty inventive name, if you ask me.” _(Pretty cheesy, more like. A very simple play on words. And ‘the Friends of the Debased’? Sounds like some sort of Quaker group.)_ Well, shit. Grantaire muses for a moment. If Enjolras is so dedicated to les Amis, then chances are he counts its members amongst his closest friends. They are the sort of people he would, hypothetically, go to a pub with. Assuming this is the case, and this Euphrasie, or Cosette, or whatever, is really so attached to Marius, would she not then be likely to join them in drinking?

“Éponine?” He asks. “This simpering girlfriend wouldn’t be an art student, would she?”

“I dunno. Seems like the sort of thing she’d go for. Why?”

“Well, I have a sneaking suspicion she’s one of my students. Stereotypical blonde?”

Éponine snorts. “Hair dye. Everything about that girl is fake.” _(Harsh. Though he can’t say he’s formed a more favourable impression of the girl so far.)_ “But you’re right about the stereotype. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her when she hasn’t tripped over something. Mind you, I wouldn’t be surprised if she only does that so Marius can catch her in his arms.” Grantaire is saved from having to formulate an answer by a tinny sound emitting from his pocket. Muttering an apology, he pulls out his mobile and opens up his messages.

<Enjolras> im sorry about before. i get carried away talking about the cause _(The cause? Pretentious twat. He’ll forgive him, though.)_

<Enjolras> would it be too much to ask for you to help me anyway

<Enjolras> i really am contrite _(Jesus, Mary and Joseph.)_

“Who wants your attention this much?” Éponine asks, intrigued.

“Nobody. Just some student,” he replies without looking up from his phone. But there’s a smile playing over his face as he taps out his reply.

<Me> sure. u free tmrw @ 4


End file.
